all your lovers fall down at your feet
by BlazingLegend
Summary: If they can't keep each other, then they're determined to destroy anyone else who tries. /au.
1. quick, before they cast you outta heaven

—_if they can't keep each other, then they're determined to destroy anyone else who tries._ [yeah, still au]

I recently said to ImperiumWife that last train isn't a revenge fic. Well, this one is. I have no illusions; the base idea for this fic came plainly out of hatred for Ted. Also out of the writers proving that you can do everything right and still have everything go so wrong. Well, guess what? This time they're going to do it _wrong._

* * *

><p><strong>quick, before they cast you outta heaven<br>**

In hindsight, when Robin walks into the bar that night, he probably should have been paying more attention.

She slides into the seat across from him, her fingers gripping her glass until her knuckles flush white, and she downs the contents in one throwback. Her jaw is set; she's muttering hot things underneath her breath, and her free hand is twitching against the wood it sits on.

He leans over, and moves his hand on top of hers to cease the movement. "Hey." His voice is low, and he squeezes two warm pulses into her palm.

Her eyes take their time finding his; detached, floating. "Hey," she breathes at him, her words rasping, her eyes glazing over with a fine layer of salt.

Something in her voice, in that one word, strikes something hollow in his throat, a gaping hole in his chest; a chasm.

"Robin?" he says, and pulls his hand back into his lap. "What's the matter?"

Concern eats away at the insides of his words, turning his syllables flimsy, honey coating his tongue.

She stares into her empty glass. "Nothing," she mutters, "It's nothing."

He sits back. "Come now, Scherbatsky," he says, and her eyes slowly drift back to him, "This isn't Ted or Lily you're talking to. It's me. Now confess."

She laughs, at that. "Yeah," she clears her throat, "Uh, yeah. It's not really—anything," she pushes her glass away from her, brings it back, pushes it away. "Not much. Bad day at work. And now I don't even have Ted to talk to," she lets out a crisp, bitter laugh, "Not that I would really... want to. Not really. I'm not into that touch-y feel-y crap of his, I... I don't know. I guess it's nice... to have someone."

He nods. He knows all about safeguards. He knows what it's like to suddenly be falling, and have no one there to catch you.

"You have me."

She laughs again, but this time, it's genuine and light. "Yeah, right, Barney."

And that hurts him, a little. "What do you mean?" he says, taking a swig from his glass to hide pain that shouldn't be there, "You always have me, Scherbatsky."

She arches a brow. "You're not the most ideal..." she stops, she must see his face falling or something, "... never mind."

He doesn't really know why her words make his throat coat with something he doesn't like, why he's blinking faster, why he's on a diagonal tilt.

Words, even Robin Scherbatsky's words, shouldn't hurt him this much.

He swallows, puts on a smile that collapses all too quickly. forces himself to breathe; his chest radiates with a tight feeling, a twisted feeling. "Yeah. You're right. Never mind." He mutters.

He's still pinwheeling, looking through a broken lense, not fully incorporated into reality; he tells himself it's the scotch.

He straightens, pastes on another brittle smile that shows too many teeth, and gestures to her glass. "Another round, on me?"

She blinks at him for a moment, like she's trying to figure him out. He's not worried; he's been playing at this game far too long for even her to figure him out. Her stares are sideways, combing for any piece of shrapnel he'll give her. Her eyes shred through him, turning his shattered pieces over, trying to find a weak point, a strategy, an easy way in.

And, as predicted, she fails.

She sighs, letting out her rushed breath, and he stops trying to smile for her.

"Yeah, thanks."

Neither of them knew this night would be the beginning of the worst storm of their lives.

**x**

Barney sighs.

It's another slow night at MacLaren's, and once again he's the only properly dressed guy in sight.

He's about to go hit on a brunette down by the other corner of the room, giggling with her friends over glasses of cheap whiskey, all bright eyes and big cans, when Robin sits down and any and all thoughts of a _rambunctious _nature simply shudder to a stop when he sees the look on her face.

"Hm," he says, staring into his glass rather than looking at her face, "You seem... troubled."

He's talking to her in a smooth voice, a blunt voice, one of the many voices he uses to pick up women because he's been trying to sort it all out in his head but he really doesn't know how to talk to her now.

"Yeah," she says in a fast mutter, her eyes roaming everywhere, blue irises turning up tables and looking behind doors, "Whatever. Hi."

"Distracted, Scherbatsky?" he says, and her eyes flick to his for a fraction of a second, and for half a panicked moment she's turning him up, looking behind his doors.

He breathes, he breathes and swallows down more scotch. "What's the matter?"

He hasn't seen her for about three days, give or take, and he can't help but think maybe some part of him is glad.

Some part of him can't help but think it might just be by design.

"It's nothing, not really." She says. "Another day at the office, you know how it is," she lets out a small laugh, a nervous laugh, a laugh that tells him more than she could possibly want to tell.

He eyes her. "You don't work in an office."

Her nostrils flare, her jaw is set, as she turns on him. "Okay, well, whatever. Shut up."

Her hurried words make something stir inside of him; concern, maybe, and he tries his best to shut it down at the source. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

She snaps to attention. "What?" she stops, starts again, mumbles, "Sorry."

He stares her down. "What's wrong?" his words are softer, slower, this time around.

Her eyes stop spinning out of control; she centers her body toward his, clasping her hands on the table, and actually looking him in the eye. "I'm sorry."

He stares at her sideways. Laughs a small laugh. "Hey, it's okay," he says, taking one of her hands and squeezing out two short beats. "I don't even know what you're apologising for, but it's okay."

She shakes her head, laughs as well. "You're an idiot."

He grins. "Thanks."

She lays her head down on the table, breathing low, breathing jagged, and so he just pets her hair.

"Hey, Barney?"

He works to untangle his fingers from her curls. "Yeah, Scherbatsky?"

"I'm..." she stops, coughs, chokes on her own words, "I'm sorry. For real. Sorry," she says, her words getting faster and faster, "I'm, uh, sorry. About the other day. You're... you're great. I mean... yeah. You're great."

His fingers brush over the freckles on her neck. "It's okay."

"You know, I really didn't mean—I didn't," she stops. "Oh God, I don't know. I don't know what I didn't mean. How insane does that sound? A lot. I bet it's a lot. I bet—"

And so he stops her. "Scherbatsky."

She stirs, eyes moving up to him. "Mm?"

He leans down and kisses her forehead. "We're good."

She tangles her fingers through his. "I'm glad."

He hasn't realised it yet, he's already in too deep, and even if he did realise it he wouldn't be able to do a single thing about it.

Maybe he wouldn't want to.

**x**

"Hey, Barney."

The fact that tonight she is looking exceptionally gorgeous is one he can't help but note. The very sight of her makes his skin jump, turn his lungs to fire and fill his eyes with stars, her at the center, the nucleus, a galaxy of light amongst a world that remains grey.

He nods at her to sit. "Hey."

She maneuvers in across from him, the heel of her shoe skimming over his shin. She doesn't seem to notice. "You want something to eat?"

He's just about to wave Wendy over when Robin smiles, shakes her head, "Not tonight. I'm meeting here with Ted for dinner."

He arches a brow. "Dinner?"

She nods. "Mm-hm," she says, "At that little bistro downtown."

"The smurf penis bistro?"

She laughs. "That's the one."

He takes a sip from his glass; alcohol flows through him, highlighting him, spreading fire. "Ted's a lucky guy, you being dressed like that for just some date."

"I know, it's great, isn't it?"

It is. It is great. She looks _great. _Wearing a tight, short dress that shows enough cleavage to attract every straight guy in a five mile radius, deep red and glistening lipstick smoothed over her full, kissable lips, hair blown into waves coming down over her shoulders and legs so long he's tripping over his own.

He clears his throat. "Yeah, sure," he avoids her eyes, her smile, avoids that fire flaring up from the pit of his stomach, "You look great."

She grins at him. "Thanks."

Her phone trills in her purse, pulling him out of any less than appropriate scenarios about to play over in his head. "Who is it?" his voice is strained, he's holding his glass tighter.

"It's Ted."

He coughs. "Right, Ted. Your boyfriend! And what a great boyfriend he is," he says, "What's your boyfriend, my best buddy in the world—uh, what's he saying?"

She blinks at the screen. "Oh."

He stops. "Scherbatsky?" he says, softly. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head quickly, thumbs at her eyes and clears her throat, "It's, uh—it's nothing. Turns out he..." she swallows, "Turns out he can't make it. It's okay, it's okay."

His first thought is no, it isn't. "Robin... I'm sorry."

She sniffs, then tries to make out like she didn't. "Seriously, it's fine. I'm okay. It was a stupid date anyway. It was a stupid, stupid..."

He shakes his head and slides out of his seat, then goes to sit down beside her instead. He wraps an arm around her without saying anything, and she leans into him, head falling against his chest.

He murmurs against her hair.

"Are you okay?"

She shakes, a little.

"No."

And he holds her, close against him, for as long as he possibly can.


	2. to burn in your fire

**to burn in your fire**

90's music flows out from speakers at the edges of the room, scotch flows down his throat with bitter feeling, and the chatter from people with everything sorted out in their lives is bound to drive him insane.

Ballet flats tapping up next to him are what break him out of his spellbind; Robin slumps in next to him, her face void of it's usual illumination.

All events of the previous week are swept away; her eyes show no hints of the evening of things that happened between them, no memories of the ways he held her or even the fact that he knows she's not as strong as she'd have the rest of them believe.

He attempts, and fails at, "Hey."

"Hey, Barney." She says. She blows at her fringe. She shuffles in her seat. "How's the talent?" her eyes turn to the crowd, and she pulls a face, "Not quite up to standard, is it?"

"Mm," he concedes, taking small sips from his scotch, "Maybe now that you're here, but otherwise, no."

She cracks a grin that rings hollow in her cheeks. "Need a wingwoman?" she says, and offers him a sly wink.

"Not tonight, Scherbatsky," he says, and sighs, "Not tonight."

Her eyebrows arch into her hairline, or almost. "Are you kidding?" she says, blue eyes going big, "What happened? Who died? Did you slip some pills before I came in?"

"I don't know," he says, shrugging, "I'm just not feeling up to it."

She laughs and reaches for his hand. "You getting on in the years, Stinson?"

He scoffs, but doesn't let himself let go of her hand. "Please, Scherbatsky. Like I'd ever. As if."

"Feeling a tad sensitive, are we?" she says, patting over his knuckles, "Don't worry. It happens to the best of us."

"And what do you mean by that, Scherbatsky?"

She leans back, and shrugs. "Maybe you're getting too old for this game."

"I'm twenty-five, Robin. I am doing no such thing."

She eyes him. "Don't you try and fool me, Stinson." She says, and her voice drops to a low, almost secretive whisper, "You're twenty-eight and we both know it."

"Damn you, Robin Scherbatsky."

She blows him a kiss. "I try, I try."

He pouts. "Maybe I'm twenty-five at heart, Robin. Ever think of that?"

She winks at him; licks her lips. "We're _both_ twenty-five at heart, Barney."

He grins. "God, you're hot."

This is the kind of thing he loves; the things they can get away with when the watchful eyes of the elders aren't present.

The way she smiles at him, the way she brightens, the way she tilts her head and laughs in the way only he can make her laugh, the way colours seem more vivid and beauty is more apparent and that laugh is the most musical thing he's ever heard in his life.

The light teasing, the hints beneath her voice, the games they can play when Ted isn't around.

She swivels away from him, casting a discerning eye on the rest of the bar-goers. "Let's see..." she says, rolling her tongue over her teeth, eyes snapping every which way.

She leans back, fixing her eyes directly in the middle of the table, and whispers over at him, "Prize cutlet at eleven o' clock."

He almost doesn't look, he's not sure he wants to. He flicks a fleeting glance over at where she's looking. He shrugs, "Not my type."

"Barney," she whines, "You've got to give me something here. She's totally your type! Big cans, _smoking_ body—if I do say so myself..."

He takes another quick look at the cutlet in question. "She's not that hot."

"She's more boob than face, for crying out loud!"

"I don't know. I told you," he says, and sips from his drink, "I'm just not feeling it tonight, okay?"

"Barney..." her voice drops, and she nudges the toe of her boot against his shin. "Barney, what's wrong?"

"So just because I don't feel like fucking some random chick something must be wrong?"

She flinches away from him. "I don't—" she stops, and shakes her head. "Sorry. I just thought..." she waves her hands around, gesturing to nothing in particular, "I mean, it's you. You're _Barney._ You're always looking to play another play."

He sighs. He hadn't meant meant to snap, but he pushes that feeling away. "Not tonight, Scherbatsky."

Her face flashes with something; something torn down, hurt, and something stirs in him from somewhere dark, somewhere deep down inside him, somewhere that shouldn't be there and somewhere he's scared of. She whispers, "I... don't know what I said."

He'd never meant to hurt her.

"Scherbatsky, I'm sorry."

She waves a hand at him, voice turning light, "Nah, don't worry about it. It's fine. You're not feeling it, I get it." She stops. She smiles a smile that breaks after maybe half a second. "I get it."

"Robin..."

"No, seriously. I'm fine. I get it."

She clasps her fingers on the table. Lights flicker above their heads; the air has turned heavy, lined with the things that should never be said.

"Robin," he pries her fingers apart; brushes over them, one by one. "I guess I'm just sick of all the cheap hookups."

Her fingers still against his. Her eyes drift, slow, taking their time. "Really?"

He smiles, softly. "Really."

"Are you smooth talking me, or..." she murmurs, and turns his hand over, tracing swirling circles into his palm.

"I would never smooth talk you, Scherbatsky. I wouldn't dare."

She laughs, quickly. "Yeah," she murmurs, "Yeah."

His voice drops, "Don't tell Lily, though. She'll be on at me for God knows how long. For the rest of my life, probably."

"I won't," she says, shaking her head, smiling, "I would never."

In a rush he realises how close they are to each other; both leaning across the table, he's drowning in her scent and the perfume she doesn't bother to wear because it's just him and her and no one else, no one to dress up for.

He leans back.

She eyes him. "So you're passing up on the talent tonight, huh?"

Her smiles turns him blurry, a drunk whispering man wishing for things long past.

"Pick me out a nice gazelle, Scherbatsky."

She grins. "There's my sleazy Stinson." She says, and gets up. She turns back to him; winks. "Only the best for you, Barney. Only the best."

To her credit, she does have good taste. She picks him out a brassy blonde with a headful of dizzy dreams who's all too happy to believe he really can get her a one way ticket to stardom.

He kicks her out in the morning and doesn't even bother to learn her name; he's too busy trying not to focus on the one that already haunts him.

But it's not like he's not used to it by now.

**x**

In the next three days, she only comes into the bar once.

She thumps down next to him, fists clenched by her sides. She reaches over and steals his half full tumbler of scotch away from him; polishes it off in one swig.

"Scherbatsky," he says, "Something the matter?"

"Oh, you know how it is," her tongue slices around her words, her syllables dripping with something hollow and bitter, "Life's a goddamn fairytale."

"Scherbatsky..."

"What, Barney?" she says, scowling, teeth flashing, "I don't understand what you're looking for."

"I'm not looking for anything. Why are you so pissed at me?"

She sighs; a frustrated, snapping thing. "I'm not pissed at you," she says, and sighs, rolling a finger up and down the bridge of her nose. "I'm not pissed at you."

"Well, good," he says, slowly. "Who are you pissed at, then?"

"Nobody."

"Really? You sound pissed."

"I'm not pissed."

"Well you _sound_ pissed."

She slides his empty glass back to him. "I'm not pissed."

"Robin, are you drunk?"

She eyes him. "Yes," she stops, and sighs. "Well, that's the plan, anyway."

He laughs.

She stares at him, her eyes flash with something, then quickly turn dull again. "Please," she says, quietly, "Please don't tell Ted."

Her pale hand fidgets on the table.

"Of course not."

She stills, for a second.

Her eyes shift to his; unsteady, shaky. "You got a light?"

He nods. "Sure," he presses his lighter into her hands, "Let's go outside."

"Can't have Carl kicking us out again, right?"

She's smiling.

He smiles back. "Right."

They move outside; a cold wind brushes over them, and he shrugs his jacket off and wraps it around her shoulders.

She takes a drag from her cigarette, her eyes shining in the street light. "I'm Canadian, remember?" she says, arching an eyebrow. "But thanks."

Silence extends, until she shifts in her spot, taps ash into the street, and sighs, "Sometimes I wish I never met Ted."

He turns, staring her down. "Robin."

She blinks. "Does that sound really bad of me? Sorry. God, that does sound bad, doesn't it?"

"Is everything okay between you two?"

She doesn't beat around it. "No."

He takes a step closer, his teeth rattling against the cold. He takes the cigarette out of her hands, just for something to hold onto. He takes two short puffs; blows them out into the night. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"He's studying too much," she says, with a shrug, like it's no big deal. When he knows it makes all the difference in the world. "He says it like he doesn't think I know he's just using it as an excuse to get away from me."

He looks over at her, breathing in smoke like a lifeline, using it in the spaces between them so he won't have the word capacity to screw this up. "It can't be that bad."

"Oh can't it?" she parrots back, almost mocking him. "I know you're not stupid, Barney. No, I'll pay you the _compliment_ of thinking you're not. It's not like there's not enough to see." She says, and motions for him to hand the cigarette back.

She blows smoke rings at him. "I'm supposed to love him, but I'm not sure."

"Scherbatsky..."

"Don't you Scherbatsky me, Barney." She says, her warm voice starting to blend in with the cold of the nighttime, "There's no point in being a little bitch and pretending it's not there."

It doesn't feel like something they're getting away with now.

He's supposed to contradict her, he's supposed to defend his best bro, he's supposed to keep her at arms length and he's supposed to be the saint, not the sinner.

He steps closer. "I didn't know things were that bad."

"It doesn't matter now, I guess," she says, and sighs, carding a hand through her hair. "It doesn't matter whether you saw it or not. It's there. It's always there, it doesn't leave me alone, and I'm sick of it."

Something's rising in her voice; agitation, outrage, blending in with all those things he's never supposed to hear.

"I'm sick of being perfect," she says, scowling into the dirt at the bottom of her boots, "I'm sick of being his perfect little Robin in his perfect little life with the perfect amount of love and tolerance who's there for whatever he needs and thinks he can do no wrong." She stops.

"I'm sick of being her."

She throws the cigarette into the dirt and stamps the life out of it.

She's not looking at him anymore, she's staring into the dying embers.

She stares over at him, the blue of her eyes the only source of illumination in a world otherwise coloured in the dark. "Hey, Barney?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I know something stupid we could do."

She moves closer in one fluid motion, she pulls down on his tie, a hand on his neck, and she's kissing him.


	3. how quickly the glamour fades

**how quickly the glamour fades**

Cold night sweeps through him; uncut and absent of any and all smooth edges or warmth.

The only source of heat or even light is her lips on his, her fingers at his tie and pressing bruises into his collarbone. On instinct, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her closer, the other hand slipping into her hair.

She pulls down hard on the knot of his tie. She tastes like cheap cornerstore liquor and early morning coffee; her scent bleeds against him, the sea water in her hair and the pressed books she's been pouring over for work.

Her fingers trail down his abs and her lips move along his jaw and she pulls at the loops on his belt. "Barney," she murmurs against him, her voice glowing golden in this dark beautiful little corner of theirs.

"Barney."

He pulls away from her, and the cold starts bleeding into him. He blinks. "Oh God," he says, "Oh fucking Christ," he steps away from her, and cards his fingers through his hair.

"Shh," she says, pressing her fingers against his lips; cold, smooth, real. "Shh, shh."

He pushes himself away from her. "No," he says, his breath coming out in small, smouldering gasps and he's looking her up and down and all he wants to do is to blink and she'll be gone, or it won't be her, or it won't be him, or it won't be anybody and this never even happened. "Robin. No."

Her fingers are at his collar, scratching down his skin. "Why not?"

"Oh God," he says, "Robin, we can't—it's not—you know we can't—"

She stares at him, blinking at him in between his blurry glances.

Slowly, she moves and links her arms around his neck, closing in on all the space he's been trying to put between them. She kisses him again, softer this time, slower this time, her tongue doing all the things he likes, and she picks up his hands and guides them to her waist.

Her free hand is cradling his jaw, and she's pushing her body against his.

He breaks away. "Stop," he says, a small snatch of sentence to combat her sudden lack of sanity, "Robin, please. You're not... thinking straight. You're drunk," he just keeps on throwing words at her, something to protect him from any of this, but all dissolving before they make contact. "You're pissed, and you're lonely, and you're drunk and this is a bad idea and—"

She hits him hard in the chest, pain flaring, and she's scowling, "That wouldn't stop you with any other girl."

"But," he stops, watching her lips and her teeth catching on them and the faint smell of the sea pressed into her skin and the makeup she's not wearing, until the screaming in his head breaks through.

"But it's not any other girl. It's you."

Not some blonde, not some bimbo, not some broken toy or a cheap hookup.

"It's you, Robin."

She spins out away from him and tears at the wall, eyes screaming as she hits and scratches and claws at the brick until pieces crumble into her hands and her fingers are bleeding and not for the first time he wonders if she's breaking down, if maybe they both are.

She throws the flecks and spittle of concrete at him and slams her palm flat into the middle of his chest. "You're an idiot. You're a fucking idiot, Barney Stinson."

Her eyes flame. "Who cares if it's me? Who cares if I'm drunk? Don't you pull that honourable shit on me, Barney. I've seen what you do to your numbers. Fuck, I've been left with the aftermath." She pulls down hard on his tie, and he can feel the pieces of her shattering all over, a war he never knew he was fighting, a war he never wanted to be fighting. "I want this, Barney. I want you. Now tell me, what parts of that do you not understand?"

She pulls away from him. She rips the jacket he gave her off her shoulders and throws it down into the dirt. "I'm vulnerable enough, I'm drunk enough, I hate Ted enough. Now what the fuck is wrong with you?"

He grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her, a little. "Robin, calm down. Please."

She stares at him, into him, breaking him. "No. I'm not going to calm down. And do you know why, Barney?" she says, her lips cracked and bleeding, her eyes blurred in with a canvas of her own bad decisions. "I haven't watched you parade conquest after conquest past me for the last three years just for you to do this to me now. Don't pretend like you have morals. Don't pretend like you even know what that means. There's only one thing I'm asking for here, Barney."

Her voice is low, resonating in her throat, blending in with a world tilted sideways.

"Pretend like I'm not with Ted."

Parts of him, the dark parts of him, the twisted parts of him, wonder what would happen if he took her up on her offer. Something great, maybe. Probably. Something bad, definitely.

The seething shallow things inside him are screaming at him, and he doesn't want to hear the words.

He picks his jacket up from the ground. "You know I can't do that, Robin."

She pulls out another cigarette and flicks up his lighter, and for one vague shadowed moment he wonders if she'll set herself on fire just to watch the flames.

"And it's in your precious Bro Code, is it?" she says in between her own dragon smoke blown into a nightmarish starlight, "Hooking up with your best bro's girlfriend is somewhere in those rules? It sounds like it would be."

"No," he says, slowly, and she eyes him as the cigarette dangles from her lips, "It's so obvious that it isn't even in there."

She breathes a low, steady laugh. "Interesting."

Something raw starts to pulse in the bottom of his throat. "What's interesting?"

"You're interesting, Barney."

He doesn't know if she's trying to play up his interest, the interest she knows he has, because no one can blame him and she really is pretty goddamn _interesting,_ or if she's trying to distract him and disguise how drunk she actually is when they can both hear the sloppiness behind her words and the slur that coats her vowels.

He sighs; his breath drifts against the wind. "Look, Robin, it's late and—"

"—and we should probably get going?" she says, one eyebrow arched, but her face shows no signs of anything other than blue eyes and blank static. She shrugs. "Yeah, you've spun that line on me before, Barney."

He blinks, and sighs again. Then he throws his jacket back on, because she may be Canadian but it's cold without her standing next to him. "Whatever, Robin."

She throws her cigarette to the ground. "Yeah, you're right. Whatever."

Her eyes lift to his, reflecting against the skyline of skyscrapers and stars. "So, is this what we're doing? Are we just forgetting this?"

"I definitely hope so," he mutters, and he hears her move a few steps closer.

She puts a hand on his shoulder. "Barney?"

He looks at her but not before shrugs her off. "What is it?"

"Please tell me I didn't fuck this up."

She's not crying, but the things beneath her voice are enough. "You didn't fuck anything up, Scherbatsky."

"Then tell your face that," she says, her voice starting to lighten, "Because your face is saying I fucked things up."

He's well aware what his face is saying, and he's well aware of the things he doesn't want it to say. "Go home, Scherbatsky. Go home to Ted."

She draws back. "No," she says, straightening, her jaw setting. "I'll call Lily. I'll crash at her place. I'm not going back to Ted." Her breath stops, for a second, behind her lips. "At least... not tonight."

He breathes in, slowly. "You do whatever the hell you want, Robin."

"Oh, no," she says, "You've already made it pretty damn clear I'm not allowed to do whatever the hell I want. Otherwise this—" she gestures to the world around them, her words floating into the night sky, "—_this_ is definitely not what we'd be doing right now."

He steps back. "You're right. Crashing at Lily's is a good idea," he says, and turns around and walks back into the street. "I'll get you a cab."

It only takes a second for the cab to roll up in beside them, despite the late hour, and she slides into the one he hails for her.

She's staring straight ahead, unblinking, not breathing, not looking at him and he'll admit the absence of her eyes from the twisted canvas that plays out their broken scene is for a moment on of the most terrifying things he's ever experienced.

"Robin?"

She rolls down the window, breathing cold smoke against his face.

She sighs. "Yeah, Barney?"

He traces a thin line into the condensation on the side of the cab. "You're not going to tell Ted, are you?"

She snorts and lets out a short, crisp laugh. "Of course not. God, Barney. It's like you don't know me at all."

Lately he's been operating under the assumption that he doesn't. "Okay," he says, softly. "So, this never happened?"

She arches a brow. "What never happened?"

He smiles.

She reaches up and runs a finger over his cheek. "Goodnight, Barney."

"Night, Scherbatsky."

**x**

It's been a week since their little incident and he's done the best job he can of forgetting that anything ever happened.

Lily slides in across from him, all set and glaring. "Okay, look-y here, mister bigshot,"

"I think you mean mister big penis, but go on."

"Hey, hey. There is a baby in this bar." She swallows and looks down at Marvin gurgling in her lap. She cringes. "Oh God, there is a _baby_ in this bar."

She bangs her head back into the seat a couple times.

He shares a concerned glance with Marvin. "Moving on, Lily. You were pissed, you were making a big dramatic opening scene out of it..."

Her face brightens. "Yes, right," she says, and quickly adopts her stern expression back from moments ago, "You can't just go around saying stupid stuff all the time, alright? It's not cool, dude." She says, leaning over the table, her voice darkening, "It is _not_ cool."

He frowns and takes a sip from his scotch. "Sorry, Aldrin, you've lost me."

"Just what the—" she stops, her eyes widening as she glances down to the baby she's bouncing in her lap, "Just what the h-e-l-l do you think you're doing?"

"I'm, uh, not sure," he says, shrugging, "You're being pretty vague here, Lil."

She slams her palm flat against the table. Then she bites down on her lip and looks down at baby Marvin, "No no, sweetie. Don't cry. Don't cry," she says, stroking his soft head, and then she smiles, "Oh look, he's actually not crying. Go team Lilypad."

Barney shakes his head and leans over, fist-bumping with Marvin. "There you go, buddy. It's okay, I know it can't be easy to have a psychotic mommy."

Lily huffs, eyeing him up and down with a stare he can only assume is supposed to be some sort of burn on him. He flashes her a grin.

She scowls some more, "I would whack you one right here in this booth if I didn't have my adorable little baby shnooky-wook right here with me. I mean, look at him, look at his chubby little cheeks and his—"

"Lily, you're going all super cheesy on me here and unless you want to clean two guys' spit up off that designer shirt you're gonna get to the freaking point."

"Okay, okay, fine," she says, sighing. "My point is, what in God's name did you say to Robin?"

He leans back. "Nothing. I didn't say anything to her."

"Don't you start lying to me, Barney Stinson," she reaches over and pokes at his face, "Your left cheek always twitches whenever you lie to me. Now confess your sins or I swear the baby's not going to be enough to keep me from slapping you right in that pretty face of yours."

He stares at her. She arches a brow, challenging him, and she looks pretty determined to actually get some physical violence in so he pouts, "Fine, Lily. God. How do you even know I said anything to her?" he stops, for a second. He leans forward, voice dropping, "Wait. What did Robin say to you?"

"Robin didn't say anything. She didn't have to," she says in a light voice, "She's been acting weird. She hasn't been back home for the last week."

"Wait, uh..." he says, turning his glass around, not looking at her, "She hasn't? Really?"

"Nope," she says, shaking her head and grabbing a few peanuts from the table, popping them into her mouth, "She's been staying with us. And, I mean, that would be fine but who is she kidding, Marvin bothers her even on a good day. She can't stand kids."

"Well," he says, ready to defend, then he just sighs, "Yeah, I guess."

"So I know you said something, Barney," she sighs, and bounces Marvin up and down on her hip, "She doesn't listen to me anymore because apparently since I became a mom I'm too lame for her or something," she says, her voice cracking a little bit, and she bites down on her lip, wiping at her eyes with a green napkin. "I'm not crying. I'm not. I'm fine."

"Lily, are you okay?" he says, frowning. "I didn't know things between you and Robin—"

She shakes her head, sniffing. "Nope, nope. You're not turning into one of my sappy douche zombies. We don't need another Ted in this group. You buck up, Stinson, or so help me I'm going to set your jacket on fire."

He laughs. "Okay, alright, fine. What were we saying?"

"Oh God, I don't know. Where we we, uhm..." she closes her eyes, then snaps her fingers at him, "Ah! Robin. We were at Robin. So she dropped down on our doorstep last week, drunk out of her mind. She says she and Ted are just in a rough patch, but I don't know..." she trails off.

Her eyes lift to his, "Did you say _anything_ to her?"

He lies.

"No."

She sighs and leans back. She runs a hand through her hair. "Then I have no idea what to do."

"You just take care of Marvin," he says. "I'll talk to Robin."

"Really?" she says, and starts to smile, "Thank you, Barney."

By this time Robin is sliding in next to Lily, pressing her wine glass close against her. "So, what are you guys talking about?"

Lily looks down. "Uhm, uh—sports. Yeah. Fantasy football. Something..."

Robin makes a face at Lily's words and takes slow sips from her glass. She doesn't even look at him. "Yeah, sure." She glances down at baby Marvin, edging away when he reaches out to grab her fingers, "How's my favourite rockstar?"

"Oh, Barney's doing fine," Lily says, frowning and pulling Marvin closer to her.

"I was talking about, uh, the baby... but alright." She says. She shrugs.

Lily sighs and squeezes out of the other side of the booth. "Well, I'd better get going, I guess." She says, hugging Marvin close to her. She stares Barney down, her eyebrows lifting. "So... you're gonna do that thing we talked about, right?"

He nods. "Yeah. Sure. Of course."

"Thanks, Barney. Really." She says, and pats his shoulder before rounding the booth and walking out.

Robin looks at him for the first time that evening, and barely watches Lily as she leaves. "What's this thing you talked about?"

"Uhm..." he starts to choke on his own words, and he coughs out, "What to get Marshall for his birthday. Yeah."

She frowns at him. "Okay, you're acting weird. Really weird." She says. She leans forward slightly, just enough so that her hair tumbles off her shoulders and he can partially see down her top and he's pretty goddamn sure she knows that, "Everything... okay?"

He leans back and presses his cold tumbler of scotch against his lips. His cold, cold tumbler. "Mm. Everything's... everything's fine, Robin. Everything's fine."

"Well," she says, leaning back and shrugging. "Fine is good. Fine is good..."

"So," he's suddenly wishing there's more alcohol in his glass, a lot more, "How are things at home?"

Her face shuts off; hardens and turns cold and she's not playing any of those games she loves to play anymore.

Her nostrils starting to flare and she leans back and stops looking at him. "Things at home are fine."

"Oh really?" he says, "So how's the boyfriend?"

She runs her fingers over the table, her nail polish cracking against the wood. "Just what the fuck do you think you're doing, Barney?"

He shrugs. "You said everything was going to be back to normal between us."

"Oh, and so this is what you usually do? Say stupid things to piss me off?"

"Seems like it."

"God, Barney," she says, running her hands through her hair until it has that nice windswept I've just been fucked quality that she knows he likes, "It's been a week since I've even seen your face. I thought you'd at least not be a total jackass."

"Looks like you thought wrong, Scherbatsky."

She leans over, but this time she's looking him straight in the eye. "So is this what it's going to be like now? Does this—" she gestures between them, "—do _we_ just fade away because of something stupid I did one time when I was drunk?"

He stares into his empty glass and never does answer her.

"Well, then. I guess that TS Eliot guy was right," she says, and gets up, "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with a fucking coward."

By the time he looks up again, she's gone.


End file.
